Sweet Dreams Are Made of These
by Lancer1968
Summary: Lancer – Unique Moments of a Father and His Sons - Sequel to "Butterflies"


Sweet Dreams Are Made of These

Summary: Lancer – Unique Moments of a Father and His Sons

Short Sequel to "Butterflies"

Any and All Disclaimers Applicable

Sweet Dreams Are Made of These by Annie Lennox and David Allan Stewart

Sweet dreams are made of this who am I to disagree  
I travel the world and the seven seas  
Everybody's looking for something

Some of them want to use you  
Some of them want to get used by you  
Some of them want to abuse you  
Some of them want to be abused

Ooh...hey...ooh...aha, oh...  
Ooh...hey...ooh...aha, oh...

Ooh...hey...oh...  
Hold your head up, keep your head up, movin' on  
Hold your head up, movin' on  
Keep your head up, movin' on  
Hold your head up, movin' on...

# # #

January 1872 – Lancer Ranch, California

Murdoch Lancer woke with a start, perspiration saturated his nightshirt and beaded upon his forehead in trickles, he sat-up in his oversized bed, gasping for air. His dream now reoccurred much more frequently, ever since he had been back shot by Day Pardee eight weeks previously. This dream, he had periodically before his injury but now he was dreaming it numerous times during the week. He dreamt of his sons growing up at Lancer together, two little boys, one with light hair, the other was the complete opposite, with his raven hair; instead of the stone-cold, ugly truth that neither son even realized that the other one existed. He only saw them in his mind's eye as small lads, not as grown-up young men in his dreams, which were pleasant enough visions until darkness cloaked the brightness of his dreams when his boys were snatched away from him by faceless monsters before he woke.

He called out to them, "Scott. Johnny. Come home."

Reaching to the bedside table he snapped opened his pocket watch to check the time…3:30am. Realizing that he would only toss and turn the rest of the night, he swung his legs over the side of his bed. He poured himself a glass of water and gulped it down, using the sleeve of his nightshirt to wipe off his brow. Looking out his window, he saw that the moon was descending behind the distant mountain range. He struck a match to light the oil lamp.

"Come hell or high water, it's past time for Scott and Johnny to be home, fighting for their birthright to be my partners," he surmised. "My dreams are made of this, who am I to disagree?"

He took his time, getting to his feet, grabbed the nearby walking stick in order to shuffle his way to the tall armoire across the room. He leaned the walking stick against one door of the chest to open the other door, causing the can to fall over with a resounding "bang" to the wooden floorboards. He had reached inside for a pair of trousers and a plaid shirt just as his bedroom door was unceremoniously swung opened followed by a whirlwind of flying nightclothes, bare feet and long brown hair rushing inside without so much as a sharp knock to announce her presence.

"Murdoch Lancer, what do you think you're doing at this ungodly hour?" Teresa O'Brien fussed at him, like a mother hen clucking after her brood of chicks.

"What does it look like? I'm getting dressed!" Murdoch snapped. "I have matters to attend to that are urgent."

"Dr. Jenkins wants you to stay in bed until he comes out to check your wound. You're not supposed to be up and moving around," she said. "Get back into your bed, this minute."

"Teresa, you can either go back to your own bed, or you can go start coffee and breakfast," directed the man, giving the young snippet of a girl, his best "I mean business look" that he could muster at this hour of the morning.

"What are you going to do?"

"What I should have done years ago, get my sons back home to me."

Teresa retrieved his walking stick and handed it to him with a smile, "It's about time that you took care of this. If you don't require my assistance, I'll go start breakfast," she said before turning on her heel and flouncing off to her room to get dressed.

# # #

February 1872 - 8oston, Massachusetts

Scott Lancer jumped down from Barbara Mellon's balcony after the sudden intrusion of her father's insistent banging upon her boudoir door. Earlier, he had met her at the Boston Music Hall to listen to the Boston Symphony Orchestra to avoid her fiercely, overprotective father, James S. Mellon, Sr. one of Boston's well-off businessmen and her two older brothers, James, Jr. and Richard.

"Shades of the Garden of Eden, that was a close call," he grinned as he tossed the apple core aside that he had grabbed on his way out of Barbara's window. He hurried across the yard to the paved sidewalk, mindful that Mr. Mellon was a proficient shot at trap shooting at the Union Club of Boston, which demanded "unqualified loyalty to the constitution and the Union of our United States, and unwavering support of the Federal Government in effort for the suppression of the rebellion." Mr. Mellon was a crack shot and Scott had no doubt that he would be at his front door in seconds after shouting at his daughter, regardless that he was a former officer of said Union.

"Not willing to test his mettle in my formal wear finding me in his daughter's bedroom," he thought as he brushed away any specks of evidence that he had been forced to leave abruptly.

"You're Scott Lancer?" asked a well-dressed stranger from the shadows.

"If I am?" he replied with uttermost caution.

"The son of Murdoch Lancer?" he pressed.

"So I'm told, never met the gentleman, myself," Scott answered, perplexed at the strangeness of this meeting.

"Lawton's the name, Pinkerton Law office, we find people."

"Well, I haven't lost any. As much as I've enjoyed our little conversation," he said, Scott began to walk away, wanting distant between him and the Mellon household.

"Your father wants to see you, and he's willing to pay for it, all expenses to California and a thousand dollars for one hour of your time."

The young man was instantly intrigued by this sudden offer than came out of the blue, or had it? Since the end of the Civil War, Scott dreamed that the life he was leading wasn't the life that he was meant to be living. His maternal grandfather had tried to engage him in the gentlemanly business of making money by not getting his hands dirty, that was meant for the underlings that his grandfather, Harlan Garrett, directed and typically not with any milk of human kindness but by utter ruthlessness.

Scott felt that he was being used rather than groomed by his grandfather to become a man that he didn't recognize after having gone off to war, serving his country with honor, valor and distinction, where he had not known if a rebel bullet or cannon fire would without warning end his life. He had been abused while held captive in Libby Prison, a Confederate prison at Richmond, Virginia. This den of horror had been reserved for officer prisoners from the Union Army; it was overcrowded with harsh conditions, where he and other officers suffered from disease, malnutrition and a high mortality rate due to their exposure of the weather and temperature extremes. The moniker of "Hell on Earth," was an understatement.

Scott's nightly dreams fluctuated between night terrors and some peaceful moments after he had conquered a fair maiden's heart and virtue if she were so inclined to offer it up on a silver platter. Maybe going to meet his absence father would put to rest some of his demons and garnish him answers that his grandfather steadfast refused to give him. As an added bonus, traveling out west would certainly get him away from Boston's high society fathers and their daughters until they had been married off and forgot about their dalliances with him, a confirmed bachelor.

# # #

February 1872 - San Luis, Mexico

Johnny sat in a dirty, stinking Mexican prison, wearing a cotton shirt and trousers that were dirty and stinking from weeks of wear. They once had been clean and white, but everything in San Luis was either shades of brown dirt or rusty brown from blood, lots of blood that had been spilt by the Juaristas as they fought for their freedom. He had come looking to further his reputation as a hired pistolero and be rewarded for his efforts.

Instead, he discovered that there was no money in this village, as the wealth had been snatched by the Rurales, the rural police, who were as corrupt as the day was long. Not only that, but they were systemically executing any and all Juaristas. Because he was a mestizo, he was afforded a sham trial, not that he had expect any other outcome but to be found guilty and executed.

"Ol' Val was right; I'll be dead before I'm thirty. Damn, I'll be dead before I'm twenty," he said as he sat in his stinking cell, on a pile of the cleanest, dirty straw that he could gather. He studied and watched all the Rurales' activity, he was determined to find any way in hell that he could break out of this cell, each time new men were brought in or taken out, he weighed his options for escaping.

"Nothin'," he pessimistically thought. "Even the grub stinks," as he held his nose trying to eat something for nourishment in case any opportunity presented itself.

He had been told that he had been found guilty of aiding and abetting the Juaristas and would be taken out in two days' time to be shot.

"Two days," he said, drifting off to uneasy dreams of his mother, and his meager memories of her. His subconscious drifted to Val and Mandy, before falling into a deeper state of memories that he couldn't quite grasp in the tangled web of his mind. Somewhere in his forlorn brain, a church bell rang, as he recalled reaching his arms up, up, and upwards towards a tall man, as tall as a tree, whose blue eyes twinkled when he laughed. He thought he remembered being tossed high into the air and caught on his way back down into this man's strong arms, while he laughed at the motion. "Do again, do again," he heard from somewhere in the back of his memory.

"Keep your head up, Johnny," he heard in his head the man's deep voice that held firmness but also kindness.

"Johnny, hold your head up," he also heard, wondering who was this man and where had this occurred. No answer came to him. Now it appeared that he would die and never know if this had been his father, or one of his mother's many men she had dragged home. All he knew was that the voice wasn't Val's. Val would be calling him a dumb pissant right about now, if Val knew that he had been right by predicting Johnny's early demise.

No longer in a dream, Johnny found life slapping him upside his head, hard, as he waited his turn in the blistering heat, wearing someone's ill-fitting sombrero, sitting cross-legged on the ground, waiting for death to claim him, knowing that nobody would even shed a tear at his passing.

"VIVA THE REVOLUTION!" was loudly shouted and then Johnny jumped at the loud report of the firing squad cutting down one of his cellmates.

Johnny was yelled at to get up and move into position. He slowly rose to his feet, not an easy task to complete with his hands bound behind his back, as the sombrero even deserted him, falling to the ground.

From behind him, a fast-moving wagon came into view, as the driver shouted, "HOLD UP THERE! WAIT UP THERE!" It was driven with such haste, so much so that Johnny and the Rurales stopped to watch as the driver brought the wagon to a fast halt.

"I'm looking for a man named Madrid," exclaimed the driver to the gathering Rurales. "Johnny Madrid. Your captain back in the village said he might be one of your prisoners."

"I'm Madrid," said Johnny as he looked mystified at the man.

"Well, I finally found you," he said as he watched the Rurales cautiously while he climbed down from his wagon.

Turning to the largest Rurale, who was puffing away at a cigar he stated, as he reached for his billfold, "Senor, its muy importante that you not kill el Senor Madrid. Savvy? The vida of el Senor Madrid is worth muy dinero. Savvy?"

The Rurale stared at his bulging billfold, nodding his head in agreement. "Con mucho gusto," he bobbed his head in understanding to the universal language of money talking. This prisoner was worth something to somebody.

The stranger, handed over a wad of cash, he surmised, "That oughta do it," before he headed down the low hill towards Johnny to untie his bound hands.

"Why are you doing this?" asked the perplexed youth.

"I'm a Pinkerton agent, your father wants to see you."

"Lancer?"

"Willing to give you a thousand dollars for an hour of your time," he said.

Johnny noticed that the Rurales were talking amongst themselves and had reached the decision to take the remainder of the man's billfold, raised their guns to fire at both of them. Johnny had been listeningto their conversation grabbed the Pinkerton's gun and shot first, shooting at the Rurales in rapid style. He hustled the Pinkerton back to his wagon, who had climbed back in and took up the lines.

"Shall I tell your father that you're coming?" he yelled. Johnny quickly tossed the remaining prisoner into the wagon and rushed to grab a horse.

"For a thousand dollars, I'd even go ta hell," he yelled back, shooting the last standing Rurale before galloping off, grabbing hold of his pants so they didn't fall off in his escape.

# # #

March 1872 – Lancer Ranch, California

Murdoch sat at his desk in the great room as he reviewed the reports sent to him by the Pinkerton offices in Boston and in southern California. His face relaxed for the first time in many months.

"Teresa! Maria!" he shouted.

"What is Murdoch?" asked Teresa as she and Maria rushed into the great room from the kitchen.

"Hay algún problema," questioned Maria. (Is anything wrong?)

"Nothing is wrong at all. My boys are finally coming home," he smiled. "They should be here within four weeks." To himself, he wondered how well would they get on?

# # #

March 1872 - St. Louis, Missouri

Scott waited for the Butterfield Overland Mail Stage to take him to San Francisco. It would take him twenty-five days to reach San Francisco. From there he would need to take the Monterey Stage Line to his final destination of Morro Coyo.

"I hope meeting my father will be worth all this trouble," he mused, as he attempted to keep his travel suit spotless to meet the man who had sired him. "My father…," he shook his head realizing that he was finally going to meet the man.

# # #

March 1872 – Nogales, Mexico

Johnny with some traveling money in his pocket, decided to remain in Nogales while a pretty senorita that he had found would make him his guayabera shirt with butterflies on it. Now that he was on his way to meet his father, he wanted to look presentable in a style that suited him, in his mother's style, more Mexican than American.

He also sent Val Crawford a telegram to inform him that he was alive, well and on his way to Morro Coyo to meet his father. "That ought shock him," grinned Johnny.

Johnny was able to sleep better at night, no longer under the threat of execution. Except now, he had a new nightly strange vision, where he was riding inside a jammed packed full-up stage coach, where he sat squashed between a man in a fancy grey outfit and a man dressed in brown robes. He had a premonition that they were both brothers but not to each other. "Get the money and go," was Johnny's thought.

~Fin~

Sun Dancer

Note: While working on what I thought would have been the sequel to "Butterflies"; I had my own dream, which logically fit into my story sequence. As Johnny, Val and Day Pardee will still cross paths again in the sequel, "Do It to Them".


End file.
